


just a kid

by dominozaza



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SIKE, Trauma, found family if you squint really hard, im so sorry sing ily, sing needs a hug, women i love women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dominozaza/pseuds/dominozaza
Summary: yeah so sing being only 14 in the anime when everything goes down messes me UP that's some Serious trauma. i.e. sing is not doing well and spots people that look like his friends from all those years ago, and he wings the rest of it based just on gut feeling.
Relationships: Ash Lynx & Sing Soo-Ling, Okumura Eiji & Sing Soo-Ling, Sing Soo-Ling & Shorter Wong
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	just a kid

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii i wrote this at 12-2 am im So fuckin tired nd dont feel like revising it SORRY   
> tw blood !!!! BLOOD !! pstd, murder, mention of sex trafficking, cussing, uhhh possible depression tw?? idk if i forgot to tag smth i am Very Sorry again it's 2:30 am as i write this i have two braincells and theyre the two jellyfish from shark tales but ANYWAYS enjoy *breakdances*

sing is thirteen when he first kills someone.   
it was quick, over in minutes by a knife through the other man’s stomach in self defense. sing watches the man’s eyes bulge as blood drips down the side of sing’s knife, watches as the man chokes. warm blood covers sing’s hands as he yanks the knife back out, the long scratch on his arm stinging.   
and he cries. right there in that dark alley until some member of the gang hears his sobs and pulls him away before he’s in too deep. he doesn’t remember who; the person’s face is blurred with the one who he killed and even years later he finds it easier to try not to remember who it was because everytime he does something sharp twists in his gut.   
and god sing wishes he could say he was crying for the other man. for the light that he’d snuffed out, for the family the man would never return to. he wished he could blame the tears that streamed down his face and the suffocating feeling that gripped him at night on the fact that the man he killed would never see the sun rise or set again, but sing is selfish.   
although sing was barely a teenager, and had never seen real death before in his life, sing cried because he felt nothing when he killed the man. everything, everything sing stole. he was nothing but a thief and a dirty liar.   
sing had heard stories, rumors, of thieves from everywhere. cold ones that left not even a hair in their wake, dropping grief at families doors every night, and soft ones that left warm bread or closed their victim’s eyes before their final slumber or looked at the body with regret. after years of growing up hearing those stories sing had had faith that he’d be the latter, one for younger thieves to take after and make fun of for being too lighthearted. he had even asked his brother and the one with bright hair which one he’d be; they all said he was too kind to be a thief.   
but a thief sing became, and the pain sometimes gripped his chest so hard in those late hours of night sing thought he was dying. thought that maybe someone had poisoned him, was finally getting payback for some blurred face he had killed years ago. but the pain always eventually subsided, and sing was left with something crooked and empty in his chest.   
sing is barely fourteen when he takes dozens more. left and right and up and down- the faces eventually all become one. everytime sing sees a gun pointed at his head his vision blurs and then sharpens for him to see a body at his feet. it becomes routine.   
by the time he’s fifteen, death a shrouded mist around his head, sing doesn’t bother trying to learn their names anymore. they were a problem, and he solved them. he laughs under his covers. math was never his strong suit, but apparently stealing was. 

sing doesn’t really want to kill, no. the pain grips him at night as always, but everything eventually becomes a bit dull. the sun, the way his knife gleams under fluorescent corner store lights, the sparkling jewelry in the richie’s house. it all becomes the same thing. he knows he’s just a boy, he knows death shouldn’t call him as it does, but sing has responsibilities. he has people that need him and business to take care of in the morning. he rolls over, hand splayed across his forehead. a bottle of water sits on the floor next to him; he swallows the dry lump in his mouth. the moon is near full that night, and eerie light finds its way into sing’s room. he watches as the shadow made by his knife across the room shifts. it starts pointing towards him.

it’s the night before sing’s eighteenth birthday and he has his hood up high, a cap covering his face. the piercing kong did a few weeks ago rubs against the fabric of his dark purple hood, making him grimace. images of the unused cleaning supplies in his bathroom wade into his thoughts. sing huffs, looking up at the darkening sky. it has to be around five; sing curses under his breath. though there is nobody waiting for him at that dingy apartment he’s made himself a few more enemies than he’d like over the past months and he’d rather not get killed just before his birthday. besides, his apartment is high enough that the setting sun is visible over ramshackle buildings full of poverty and death below. sing turns down another street, buildings lined up too close to have any real alleys. there’s a flash from the other side of the street, and sing looks up.   
it’s a photographer with a rather old camera, strap light around her neck. she’s asain, short dark hair cut in a rather boyish way, and has a gold earring glinting in the escaping sunlight. there’s another woman in front of her, white and with shoulder-length messy blonde hair. they both wear plump coats and long jeans, the fair haired one posing in front of almost anything. sing watches the two go by, the blonde squatting in front of fire hydrants and shop windows and the asian taking pictures of her every time, something incredibly fond in her gaze.   
sing feels the cold invade his cheeks before he feels the tears come out of his eyes. harsh night wind slaps him across the face and sing rubs the tears off rather aggressively, but they don’t stop. they pour out, and images like screenshots of nearly four years ago when he first killed travel up his spine and burn themselves onto the back of his eyelids. he puts a hand to his chest that is rapidly rising and falling, then looks back at the two women. they aren’t too far; only about two blocks away.   
sing sprints. all he can hear is his heartbeat and the wind whistling. he crosses the street without looking, and a car honks loudly behind him.   
in seconds he’s behind the two women, head spinning. they turn around, the blonde with a curious look and the asian with a suspicious one.   
“what?” the black haired woman speaks first, hands dropping to her pockets where sing doesn’t doubt she has some kind of concealed weapon. he takes air in large gulps, then swallows.   
“i’m... i’m sing.” he holds out a hand.   
the blonde bounds up to him, shaking his hand. they’re both wearing black gloves with the fingertips cut off, though sing’s gloves are fake leather and the blonde’s is just plain fabric. “i’m asher.” blinding smile.  
the asian woman scowls. “do you need something kid? we need to get to our friend’s party,”  
“oh, uh,” sing feels blood rush to his face as he searches for some pliable answer. he sighs, giving up. “you two just… remind me of people i used to know. you and your camera,” sing waves a hand. “and your bright hair. i had… friends. like you two, years ago,”  
“had?”  
“they’re both gone now,” bitterness seeped into sing’s voice, and the blonde gave him a sympathetic look. she grabs his hand, leading him to a small table that was left outside of a restaurant now closed. her gloved hands are warm. warm, and nothing like the blood that had covered them over the years.   
“tell me more about these friends,”  
“asher, it’s getting late, stop being stupid,” the asian woman snips, camera lens now covered and hand on her hip.   
asher rolls her eyes. “come on elle, he’s just a kid,”  
“yeah, a kid that could be a ploy to traffic us,”  
sing blinks, shrinking back slightly. asher makes an unsatisfied sound, looking back at sing. “how old are you?”  
“i’m turning eighteen tomorrow,”   
asher’s eyes light up. “tomorrow?” she squeals, almost scaring sing. even though he treated his members well, the sound is extremely uncommon for sing to hear as a gang leader. he nods.  
“elle, come on! he’s just a baby! we can’t leave him here on his own, especially on the night before his birthday!” the thought of telling asher he was a gang leader flits across his mind. sing wishes he was what asher thought him to be.   
elle makes a sour face. asher pouts slightly, and elle rolls her eyes. “fine. but just so you know kid, i do have pepper spray and a mean right hook,”   
asher laughs, the sound wrapping itself around sing like a blanket and filling up his stomach with an odd feeling. the blonde wraps her arm through elle’s, then looks back at sing.   
“well?”   
sing’s face heats up once more as he stands, going to the side of asher that isn’t occupied by elle.   
“so where’re you from, sweetie?”   
sing coughs. the pet name feels odd. not really bad. definitely odd, but not bad. “uh, chinatown. what about you two? are you from out of state?”  
asher blinks. “us? no, we’re from upper manhattan. we came down here to go to a friend’s place like elle said,”  
“oh.” sing scanned them over. “how old are you guys?”  
asher makes a fake offended sound, making a small grin plant itself onto sing’s face. “how rude of you to ask! didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to ask a woman’s age?”  
“woman? you barely look older than me,”  
“yeah, well. we’re both twenty,” elle speaks up.   
the three walk along the side of shops and restaurants, the sky growing ever darker. dark shadows lay across the ground and as the sky is mostly cloudy, they use the streetlights to find their way. sing doesn’t know where they’re going, as the suburbs where their friend likely lived were about a mile away. if they kept going straight they’d run right into what was basically the slums. wherever they were going, sing knew he could take care of himself.   
“college age, huh?”  
the blonde doesn’t laugh but sing can practically feel her smile next to him. “i guess we are. elle here is super smart-” asher nudges her head. “go on, tell him about your sciency law shit,”  
for the first time since he met her, elle smiles. “i’d bore him to death if i started talking about my sciency law shit,”  
“law?” the word makes alarm bells ring in the back of his mind. elle glances over at him, smile fading a bit.  
“yeah.” she frowns. “what, you tangled up in some shady stuff or something? i’m not a snitch, i won’t tell,”  
sing bites his lip, looking away. the corners of his eyes sting and he has no doubt his face looks a mess from where he rubbed it so hard earlier. “i’m... yeah, i guess you could say that,” something like distrust flashed in asher’s eyes. “i don’t hurt people though! i’m good-- i’m good to my men,”  
“your ... men?”   
sing blinks, realizing he said too much. “my friends,”  
elle cocks her head. “if they were really your friends you wouldn’t be alone the night before your birthday, kid.”  
“they’re busy. everyone has their own shit, you know? my birthday isn’t a big deal,”  
asher scoffs next to him, hitting his shoulder lightly. “of course it is! especially when it’s your eighteenth! the big one eight,”  
he huffs a laugh. “i guess,”  
“so you don’t have any plans for tomorrow?” asher questions.   
“well... no, not really,”  
“then you should celebrate with us!”   
elle unhooks her arm from asher’s, elbowing her. sing raises his eyebrows, searching for some kind of insincerity or confidence in her eyes. all he finds is soft, comforting blue eyes. elle’s dark brown ones shine behind her. “are you serious?”  
“duh? we’re on break anyways, and you seem like a good kid. good kids deserve good birthdays,”  
it’s sing that elbows her this time.   
and so they walk, discussing elle’s sciency law shit and photography as well as the annoying weather and long streets. elle even pulls out a stack of photographs she had developed, full of faces of ecstasy and laughter. clouds still cover most of the sky, but spots open here and there to reveal twinkling stars. asher doesn’t miss the chance to point out the stars that make up constellations; there’s so many that sing begins to think she’s making them up as she goes. she nearly shoves him into a bush when he questions her real knowledge on the stars.  
“i major in astronomy, of course i know the constellations shithead!” sing just laughs at the way her face his pulled. elle behind her has a fond look.  
they walk for a good twenty minutes, and by the time they arrive in front of a modest one-story home with peeling blue paint and plants growing all over, sing’s fingers are well past being numb. elle walks right across the lawn that is surprisingly green for that time of year; a hose sits wrapped, lock keeping it on the house. besides a few ugly gnomes on the house’s porch, the front of rather bare. elle slips a key out of her pocket, then opens the door to darkness and locking it behind asher and sing before asher flips on the light.  
it’s, well, modest. to sing’s left is what he assumes is the living room, a long couch with floral print on it sitting across from a stout TV that’s turned off. between the two is a coffee table so short it nearly touches the ground. to his right is a tiny kitchen, barely big enough to fit everything mandatory for one. dishes still sit in the sink, a few utensils and towels strewn onto the light counters.  
asher toes off her boots, leaving them by the front door and sing follows suit. it painfully reminds him of shorter and his sister’s lovely restaurant. he still stops by, but nadia rarely works there anymore; she’s usually in the apartment above, dealing with all the stupid numbers. though sing bonded with nadia over shorter’s death for a bit, it wasn’t long before sing got caught up in his own business. the last time sing had gone there for a great bowl was a few months ago, where nadia had simply waved at him from the window above the welcome doors.   
elle turns on another light down the hall and sing sucks in a breath. now isn’t the time or place to spiral, so instead he lurks forward, eyes taking in as much as possible.   
asher leads him down the hallway, slipping quietly into a room after elle. for a second sing isn’t sure whether to enter or not, but he does slip in as well.   
it looks… much smaller than it looks like on the outside. the walls are covered with posters of stars and mushrooms and old men with stingy beards. even the ceiling is full of tapestries that hang down, constellations marked with pen. in the corner there is a large oak desk, books piled high on the desk itself and the black rolly chair in front of it. sing wiggles his toes on the carpet; it’s actually quite nice. in front of him asher throws her jacket into a corner, where sing doesn’t fail to notice a local supermarket’s cart. the jacket catches onto the edge and slips into it. asher falls back onto the bed, which is at least a queen size. pictures line the walls around her bed and it takes sing a minute to realize they’re similar to the ones elle showed him earlier. as stuffy silence fills the room though, sing frowns.  
“i thought you said you were going to a party,”  
“we lied, obviously,” asher rolls onto her stomach, leaning forward and picking at a picture taped to the wall. it’s too far away and too blurry for sing to make out clearly.   
“so, what now?” sing steps back, hand edging toward the blade in his pocket. elle’s sharp eyes catch it.  
“we’re not gonna hurt you kid. it was a lie to protect us. don’t you know how unsafe it is for us here?” of course he did. he’d seen women kidnapped before his own eyes when he was younger, taken by gangs or traffickers or-- he didn’t let himself finish the thought. it’d always disgusted sing, what people did to women. whenever he found out one of his men had done something like that they were cast out immediately; he didn’t need sleazebags in his gang.  
asher sighs, flipping back over and sitting up. her cheeks are bright. “do you want birthday hot chocolate?”  
sing blinks. “huh?”  
“like birthday cake, but hot chocolate! it’s true that elle has a mean right hook, but i think i make an even meaner hot coco,” her smile made his chest hot and his head felt heavy.   
“yeah. yeah, that’d be nice,”  
and so ten minutes later the three sit at the coffee table in the kitchen, knees bumping. asher has a pile of dvds on her side, and she pops chocolates into her mouth as she reads the backs.   
“what about a comedy? we have that one gaming one with adam sandler,”  
elle groans. “i hate adam sandler. Skip,”  
“what’d he ever do to you?” sing questions.  
“exist,”   
sing chuckles, eyes wandering to the steaming mug in front of him. he’d already made the mistake of taking a sip after asher had just finished it, effectively burning some of his tastebuds off. while sing couldn’t drink it yet, it really did smell nice.   
the sound of asher flipping through dvds stops, and sing looks up. “you said you were into some shady shit; how bad is it?”  
sing felt a sinking feeling in his chest. it’d be so easy to lie to them. to dismiss it as something small. and by god, he really wanted to. he wanted to continue sitting in that stuffy living room and listening to the two’s light banter and enjoy the way that he could pretend they were his old friends if he blurred his eyes, but he didn’t. he doesn’t have it in him to be a liar once more. so sing looks asher in her clear eyes, so similar to the hard ones he’d seen years ago.   
“i’m a gang leader,”  
a beat passes. then another.   
then elle speaks softly. “you’re not even eighteen,” it’s a half question.  
sing looks down at his numb fingers, still full of pins and needles. “yeah. i became leader when the old one… passed on three and a half years ago,”  
“three? you were only fourteen,”  
sing keeps quiet, staring at a piece of the carpet that’s slightly longer than the rest. the room is stuffy and hot and before he knows it there are tears sliding down his face for the second time that night. he sits there, silently waiting for elle to yell at him to get out, to regret ever letting him in in the first place. instead, asher pulls him into her. she’s soft and smells of cotton candy. sing feels his chest tighten, so hard it feels as if it’ll break.   
and he sobs. he does still cry at night, but it’s only when he’s sure he’s alone and it’s hours before dawn. sing hasn’t cried in front of someone in… years. and as soon as asher starts rubbing his back he lets go. lets go of all of the frustration and anger and stuff that’s built up over the years, the images that are burned onto the back of his eyelids, his brother, his old friends.   
his ears ring when he finally pulls away from asher, face bright red.   
“i’m sorry. i don’t wanna hurt you guys or anything. what i said earlier was true- you two really do remind me of my old friends,” sing’s voice is painfully hoarse.  
at some point elle had slid up onto sing’s other side, figure emitting warmth so sweet sing found himself leaning towards her a bit.   
“what were these friends like?” elle’s voice was impossibly soft. sing’s chest tightened once more and he let out another sob, digging his face into his knees.   
a few seconds or minutes or hours went by; sing didn’t know. he finally calmed his breathing enough to sit back up, eyes feeling horribly puffy and swollen. still, tears seeped out.   
“my friends were… lovely. one had come from japan to interview gangs for some article, where he met the other. his name was… his name was eiji, and he was the kindest man i’ve ever met.” sing’s head feels light. “he had black hair and such soft brown eyes. he was smart, though, and that’s what got us all into trouble. him and-” his chest tightens. “they were lovers. i think. i’d met the other man before and with how he looked at eiji, it was obvious how much he loved him.”   
“really? what was the other man like?” asher questions.  
“he-” sing chokes, then takes a deep breath. “smart. so, incredibly smart. his brain worked like a computer, and he always had plans. he was selfless and did what he had to do to keep everyone safe. and he was- he was this stupid, selfless idiot that would put no one in danger but himself. his name was ash lynx. he killed my brother,”  
next to him, elle sucks in a breath. sing almost laughs; he’s not really sure why.   
“for good reason. my brother stabbed him, and he stabbed my brother back. and then ash bled out in a library. i only knew about that when i overheard a conversation at my friend’s house. i don’t even know what happened to his body.” sing sniffs, then sighs. “ash... he wasn’t a good person. he hurt people too, but only when he needed to. he hurt a lot of people. including... his best friend, shorter.” sing lets out another sob then, and asher pulls him into her again. pain tears through his chest, his head, making his ears ring and his stomach roll. when he finally calms down again, he pulls away, face near numb.   
“shorter was- he was a great person. he was loud and goofy and had the weirdest purple mohawk that only he could pull off. he and my brother were friends; shorter came to my house all the time when i was little, teaching my stupid skateboard tricks and watching cartoons with me. in a way, he was also my brother. and- and ash killed him,” it was asher that sucked in a breath this time. sing barely heard it. “ he had to. eiji told me what happened. shorter had been injected by some horrible drug and went almost mad. what ash did was to finally give shorter peace. i was mad at him for a bit, but i understand it well now. it hurts like fucking shit, but i understand it,”  
asher rubs his back once again and sing almost starts crying once more. instead, he sniffs and leans forward to let the steam of his hot coco run over his face. beside him the two women say nothing, and the room fills with sing’s sniffles and the TV’s static.   
he wraps his hands around the mug. it’s warm; it feels exactly as that man’s blood did years ago. but instead of his chest tightening, sing feels only soft warmth around him. and so he sits there, chest full, hands warm and head heavy.   
and finally, his eyes close. he doesn’t wake.

**Author's Note:**

> :p


End file.
